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ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP.

MRS. WILLARD.

Rocked in the cradle of the deep,
I lay me down in peace to sleep;
Secure I rest upon the wave,
For thou, oh ! Lord, hast power to save.
I know thou wilt not slight my call,
For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall!
And calm and peaceful is my sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.

And such the trust that still were mine,
Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine,
Or though the tempest's fiery breath
Roused me from sleep to wreck and death!
In ocean cave still safe with Thee,
The germ of immortality;
And calm and peaceful is my sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep,

THE LAST LEAF.

BY 0. W. HOLMES.

I saw him once before
As he passed by the door,

And again
The pavement stones resound
As he totters o'er the ground

With his cane.

They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning knife of Time

Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round

Through the town.

But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets

So forlorn; And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said

"They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has pressed

In their bloom,

And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said
Poor old lady ; she is dead

Long ago
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose

In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff,
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack

In his laugh.

I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin

At him here,
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches-and all that,

Are so queer!

And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring-
Let them smile as I do now
At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.

I THINK OF THEE.

BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

I THINK of thee, when morning springs

From sleep with plumage bathed in dew, And, like a young bird, lifts her wings

Of gladness on the welkin blue.

And when, at noon, the breath of love

O'er flower and stream is wandering free And sent in music from the grove,

I think of thee I think of thee.

I think of thee, when soft and wide

The evening spreads her robes of light, And, like a young and timid bride,

Sits blushing in the arms of Night.

And when the moon's sweet crescent springs

In light o'er heaven's deep, waveless sea, And stars are forth like blessed things,

I think of thee-I think of thee.

I think of thee ;-that eye of flame,

Those tresses falling bright and free, That brow where “ Beauty writes her name,

On fancy rush ;-I think of thee.

TIME.

BY W. H. TIMROD.

They slander thee, “old traveller,"

Who say that thy delight
Is to scatter ruin far and wide

In thy wantonness of might,
For not a leaf that falleth

Before thy restless wings,
But thou changest in thy rapid flight,

To a thousand brighter things.

Thou passest o'er the battle-field

Where the dead lie stiff and stark, Where nought is heard, save the vulture's scream,

And the gaunt wolf's famished bark.
But thou hast caused the grain to spring

From the blood enriched clay,
And the waving corn-tops seem to dance

To the rustic's merry lay.

Thou hast strewn the lordly palace

In ruin o'er the ground,
And the dismal screech of the owl is heard

Where the harp was wont to sound;
But the self-same spot thou coverest

With the dwellings of the poor, And a thousand happy hearts enjoy

What one usurped before.

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